


Secrets Kept Unsaid

by benedictedcumberbatched



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 17:29:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benedictedcumberbatched/pseuds/benedictedcumberbatched
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Idea taken from a headcanon seen on tumblr. John notices that something seems off with Sherlock after Sherlock returns. What John doesn't know is that Sherlock has hidden something from John, something he doesn't want John to ever know. //Written before Series 3 premiered so any parallels are completely coincidental.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Secrets Kept Unsaid

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Sherlock Headcanon](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/35129) by ill-deduce-your-science. 



> Characters do not belong to me, they belong to the wonderful Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and to BBC Sherlock creators, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
> 
> This story mentions a suicide attempt, if this is a trigger for you please do not read.

Despite no longer living at 221B, John still could not get used to Sherlock being around again. Although if John were honest, he was never actually gone even though John had sure thought so. After suffering a ‘bad day,’ knocking Sherlock flat on his back and going all sentimental on the non-sentimental machine that was Sherlock Holmes, John pretended to act like the last two years had not happened. Except for the addition of the lovely Mary Morstan.

It was Mary who had first pointed out that something seemed different with Sherlock. John had brushed it off as Sherlock readjusting to mortal life and getting used to London again. Mary mentioned it again and John promised to look into it. He didn’t want to admit it but something did seem different about the consulting detective. John started watching Sherlock more when they were on cases or the few times he actually showed up to dinner when Mary invited him or when they went to the morgue or lab for one thing or another.

John knew Sherlock never went anywhere without his deep blue Belstaff and blue scarf but it was beginning to get ridiculous. Sherlock appeared to wear his scarf at all times, even if they were at the lab for hours on end and usually through dinner when he actually showed up.

“John, you’re staring again. You’re trying to figure out why I’m wearing my scarf all the time because Mary has put you up to it because she, like you, is a sentimental being who don’t know when to leave well enough alone. I am not going to divulge why I’m wearing my scarf,” Sherlock rattled out without looking up from the microscope on Sherlock’s kitchen table. Not much really changed once Sherlock had moved back in to 221B.

“Right. Well, I’m going home then. Mary should be back soon and I’d like to see my fiancée,” John said, standing up and stretching to release the kinks in his back from pouring over what notes he had of the case. Sherlock didn’t answer, nor did John expect him to.

Sherlock looked up as silence descended upon the flat. He wouldn’t say it but it was odd to not have John stay. But then again, Sherlock wasn’t the same man he had been two years prior. He pushed himself away from the table and entered his bedroom, the practically unused mirror that he generally ignored, a gift from Mycroft who thought it wise that Sherlock see how he looked before going anywhere, trivial things really, beckoned him closer.

His long fingers wrapped around the fabric of his scarf and instead of ripping it from his neck as he usually did; he carefully peeled it away like a second skin. It had become a skin of sorts, hiding his misdeeds and covering the emotion he had long since established as shame and guilt. His impossible eyes settled upon his neck, an area that was partially obscured by his hair but not completely.

A burn mark, not that dissimilar from rug burn, ran under his ear and along his jaw line on his neck before disappearing into his hair. Sherlock ran a finger along what he could see of the mark, his face a mask hiding whatever he felt inside, which he wouldn’t divulge. A reminder of his lowest time while ‘dead.’ While he had been good and had not reverted to drugs, there was one night in France where he reached his most despondent and the nylon rope he had brought with him had appeared very friendly about a year and a half into the dismantling of Moriarty’s network.

Dropping his hand and swiftly returning to his analysis of the vegetation found in the tread of the victim’s shoe, Sherlock left his scarf on his bed. There was no point in hiding the mark now that John was gone.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: another little short story. This was a bit difficult to write as I have never been through such an experience but as always, please leave me a comment to let me know what you thought about it.


End file.
